


Salvaged Lives

by midnightflame



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Flirting on the down low, Galaxy Garrison, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Mild s2 spoilers, Original Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Relationship, Sexual Tension, Swearing, military life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:46:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9485606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightflame/pseuds/midnightflame
Summary: Everyone needs to be saved from themselves at some point in their lives. For Keith, salvation came when he joined the Garrison. For Shiro, it was after the Galra.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I had been toying with the idea of what happened before Shiro went missing, as S2 gave us lots of hints as to the depth of Shiro and Keith's relationship well before Voltron ever came into their lives. This is a small exploration of that potential. 
> 
> The first part does have some OC's worked into it, because I figured there had to be some others aside from Shiro in this place that could do what he did and the Garrison seems like some space-camp/military installation hybrid out in the middle of absolutely nowhere so I ran with that thought. And given this set-up, I realize this pairing has its complexities, but I take them as consenting adults. This will likely turn a bit more explicit and darker as it goes along in fair warning, but this first chapter is only heavy on the swearing.
> 
> Now, with all that said, I do hope you enjoy!

“Dismissed.”

The door slides shut just inches from his nose, and Keith is left standing outside of Iverson’s office, with his hands balled into tight fists and a scowl storming over his lips. For half of a second, he thinks to raise his hand and slam it against the door, but a murmur flows from the back of his head, in a voice familiar and calm and confident, telling him there are better things worth regretting in the end. He turns, giving an irritated click of his tongue, and begins making his way towards the barracks.

Silence has settled around him, the hallway traffic having gone mute but not dumb. He’s just waiting for the explosion of whispers as he passes, never far enough out of earshot but Keith also knows that’s part of the point. They _want_ him to hear them talking, just low enough for excuses to be made but not enough to shelter the truth of their thoughts. Just another means to _uphold protocols_ , the ones he likes to buck as they tryto drag him right back down into the dirt with the rest of them. 

Because there’s no other place he belongs. 

Top marks won’t save him. Neither will looks or talent or intelligence. Each simply sits as glaring as the sun’s last rays cutting over the mountains, painful and blinding, keeping the world and every inch of the Garrison from seeing him for who he truly is. Instead, he is nothing more than an afterimage of what they would make of him, rumors Keith has corralled off in the darkest parts of his mind. Because he doesn’t need the reminders, and sometimes, he thinks he doesn’t really need this place either.

Or, most of the Garrison at least. Not everyone. . .

A frown works its way over his lips at that thought, and with it, a sudden ache springs up violent as a summer’s storm in his core. It churns in his stomach, puts a flash of fire in his blood that sends his heartbeat racing. Like it’s trying to escape its very nature, faster and faster until the beat is thunderous in his head, leaving but one thought echoing through the darkness. 

Not everyone wants to watch him fall. 

“ – ith.”

And even if he did, there is one person who would catch him on the way down. 

“Keith!”

A hand settles over his shoulder, the touch light and questioning. Keith turns to look beside him and is greeted with a look of absolute concern, dark eyes warm, brow furrowed and lips ever so slightly parted. Shiro is the image of compassion at that moment, and it puts the calm right back into his heart. Around them, the hallway is completely empty, though Keith can catch the occasional passing body at the farthest end, making for either the training rooms or cafeteria. 

His gaze drifts back to Shiro. He’s not quite sure _how_ he got here, but something within him knows the _why_ far too well.

“You okay?’

Keith nods numbly. “Yeah, I was just. . .”

Shiro is frowning at him, eyes scouring his face for whatever betrayals it wishes to offer up. And it must have given away something because Shiro is stepping back then, a sigh rushing over his lips. The hand on Keith’s shoulder lingers in place; Keith can all but feel the uncertainty in its presence, as though Shiro has no idea what he should be rightly doing with it at this moment. 

“Trouble again?” Shiro asks, the same concern that flooded his eyes suffusing throughout his voice.

“It’s nothing. . . really.”

The hand over his shoulder settles down, fingers tightening, and the look in Shiro’s eyes turns sharp and discerning. In that one moment, Keith knows he’s been uncovered, but somehow, he finds only relief welling up.

Shiro kicks his head to the side, lets his hand slide from Keith with one firm press of his fingers in solidarity, and turns to start walking again. 

“What happened?”

Keith falls into line beside him. He notes the measured pace Shiro has set, giving him time to put his thoughts together and present them with concise clarity. At least as much as Keith can manage. He knows Shiro won’t just take anything offered to him without examining it for himself, but he likes that about Shiro. How his words aren’t just put out there to placate, his trust not offered blindly. How he doesn’t just jump to one side or the other.

Shiro thinks, then acts. He’s everything that Keith is not. 

“During the simulation today, I. . .kinda made some decisions that Iverson and the rest of my crew weren’t too happy with.”

Beside him, Shiro hums a soft sound of acknowledgment, his gaze fixed on the path before him but his head canted towards Keith. He’s listening, and that is all Keith needed to continue. 

“We were practicing navigating through an asteroid belt. We’ve done the course before. It’s tricky but perfectly manageable. My navigator charted out the course based on the information we had, but it. . .it was wrong. . .”

Keith’s voice falters then, his expression darkening. Memory kicks up voices in his head, irritated and angry, always in conflict. _Get off your goddamned high horse for once and listen to me!_ Keith shakes his head. The voices drown in the back of his mind. 

“What was wrong with it exactly?” Shiro prods after a few seconds.

“Part of the trajectory was off. I mean, we’ve done this one before, and if I followed that flight plan, we would’ve probably lost an engine and I could have lost my entire crew. But Iverson kept yelling at me to stop arguing with my teammate and listen to him, but I couldn’t. . .” 

Keith slows down for several steps then stops completely.

“I couldn’t do it, Shiro.”

His head bows, hands balling into fists at his side once more. Shiro reaches out and sets a hand atop his head, carefully ruffling the dark locks. 

“You saved your team, right?”

Keith nods.

“And let me guess – Iverson reamed you out for not working together with them afterward, then pulled you into his office after that. At which point, I’m guessing he probably told you that you were right but that your navigator wasn’t going to learn anything if you keep bailing him out in the classroom. . .”

“. . .and that I wasn’t going to get anywhere if I couldn’t learn to listen to the people around me and respect authority.”

Shiro starts laughing, tousling Keith’s hair in earnest now, and it causes something warm to flourish in the center of Keith’s chest. Quiet settles in suddenly, and everything feels perfectly right with the world once more. His fingers unfurl as he reaches up and pulls Shiro’s hand from his head. 

“I may have also told him he was full of shit if listening to the people around me meant we were all going to die in the end.”

A sound catches in Shiro’s throat then, a laugh ruthlessly choked before it can blossom, but Keith notes the way Shiro’s mouth twitches with the smile he was trying horribly to deny. After a moment, Shiro coughs out, his gaze drifting to the side as he works rather valiantly to collect his better thoughts. And this is when Keith knows it is coming because he can see the way Shiro pulls himself up straighter, setting his shoulders back, though not at all letting go of Keith’s hand.

“Listen, I get why you made the decision you did in the simulator today. Ultimately, the call always comes back to you as the pilot in those circumstances. And sometimes you make the right choice. But other times you might not, and you’ll end up jeopardizing the mission, or your crew, or both. And that is something you need to be prepared to be accountable for. . .” 

Shiro interlaces their fingers and gives Keith’s hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Don’t forget to look at the big picture, okay? You might not like your orders, but they may be given for a reason. Don’t always get so caught up in the moment – patience, remember?”

Taking a step closer, Keith exhales and sets his forehead light against Shiro’s shoulder. 

Softly, as he pushes the urge to defy even those words down into the hell it always seems to spawn from, Keith asks, “But what if I’m right?”

Shiro brings his right hand up and sets it once more on top of Keith’s head. “Then you make sure you’re prepared for the consequences of your actions. Just because you’re right doesn’t mean you won’t be punished. Things. . .they don’t always work like that here.”

They stand like that for a moment longer, with Keith breathing in the warm scent of all that Shiro is, letting himself sink into the smallest bit of comfort he knows in this place. And Shiro lets him like he always does. Never rushed, never panicked, he simply allows Keith to find his way, a beacon for everything he could be. 

A door slides open at the far end of the hall, light splashing over the grey walls typical of the Garrison’s hallways. Keith steps back quickly then, clearing his throat with a small, but thankful smile as he glances up at Shiro. He gets one last parting ruffle of hair before Shiro turns towards the open door. A head finally pokes through, laughter pouring out from the room.

“Hey, Shiro, just how long were you planning on being gone? Anderson’s whining about the hand he’s got and keeps insisting _you_ reshuffle the cards.”

“Because I can’t trust any of you other assholes to be fair about it!” a voice calls out, defiant.

“I just went to go pick this guy up,” Shiro answers with a laugh. “We’ll be there in a moment.”

A hand waves through the door, which is left open. Shiro tips his head towards it, and with a tug on Keith’s hand, starts walking forward once more. Keith doesn’t even bother to question why it was that Shiro had felt the need to find him. Simply follows him, silent and settled.

As they arrive at the door, Shiro finally drops Keith’s hand. He stops just long enough to curl his fingers around the door frame and lean back, his whisper conspiratorially low. “So, just how pissed was Iverson?”

“Oh, he was absolutely livid,” Keith responds, trying desperately not to laugh at the way amusement brightens the grey of Shiro’s eyes. 

When they enter the room, Keith can count five others in there, a handful of the best pilots the Garrison houses. Three of them – Anderson, Mendoza, and McLaughlin - are seated at a low table with a deck of cards sitting in the center and several crushed aluminum cans littering the edge of the table between Anderson and Mendoza. The cans are likely the work of Anderson, at least from what Shiro has told him about the guy, and Keith can believe it. Anderson's forearms are bigger than his own biceps. 

It's a fact Keith forces himself not to dwell on.

Standing at what looks to be a makeshift bar is the one who had called out to them. Miller, if Keith remembers him right. He had just returned not too long ago from a mission, and given the generous amount of whiskey he is pouring for himself, Keith assumes he must now be on official leave, which didn’t really amount to much for those at the Garrison. Most tended to loaf around the Garrison’s facilities for the majority of their time off, but for those who had family or just needed to get away, there had always been the option of hopping on one of the military planes, which were about as uncomfortable as travel got. Or as Shiro had put it once – you were better off being luggage on a basic charter flight than a passenger on one of the military transport planes. 

Keith had never really thought about it though. There’s simply no point – where had he to go? Besides, there is plenty of empty space and open skies on the Garrison’s lands, all 150 something miles worth of it, which is about all he really needed. 

Miller turns from the counter and tosses something hard and plastic at Shiro. “Next time don’t forget your lounge card.”

“I thought I told you to watch it,” Shiro states flatly as he catches the identification card and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans. “I just needed to run out –“

“ – for your favorite little charity case, right?”

Decker, the fifth and final member. He’s easily the tallest out of the bunch of them, with legs long and lean, and a smile sharp enough to slit a few throats or at least put the fear of it into lesser hearts. Keith had only met him once before when he had dropped off some paperwork for Shiro, but the effect had been the same. Truth be told, Keith couldn’t stand him. Not then, and not now.

Before Decker can reach out and settle his arm around Keith’s shoulders, Shiro has his hand wrapped around his wrist, holding it firmly in the air overhead.

“He’s not a charity case.”

There’s fire in Shiro’s voice, a low threat burning. Decker’s smile falters, though the hard edge of it doesn’t quite leave his eyes. He pulls his wrist free, holding both hands up in a gesture of retreat. But when Keith looks up at Shiro, the warning still sits hard and dark in his gaze.

“Decker, sit the fuck down and stop stirring shit,” Miller commands, shoving a can of Coke against Decker’s chest and walking him back towards the table. 

A hand curls around the can, the smile returns, and Decker is laughing it all off. The sound is hollow, as far as Keith is concerned, but the look on Shiro’s face tells him there had been far more to it than merely brushing off a few comments made in bad taste. As Decker takes his seat, however, the tension that had infiltrated the air is snuffed out. The muscles of Shiro’s back visibly relax, and as he glances down at Keith, he can see the warmth slipping back into his eyes.

“Shiro, are you dealing these cards or what?” Anderson calls out, rapping his knuckles against the table top. 

Beside him, Shiro sighs though there’s no trace of weariness over his expression. Just a faint, accepting sort of amusement. But Keith can’t shake the idea that something has Shiro on edge, wary as a lion surrounded by hyenas. It’s in the way he moves, more soldier than man, as he walks over to the table, the way he glances back at Keith and tips his head towards the couch for him to take a seat. Far enough away to watch as Shiro shuffles the deck expertly, but not close enough to catch the cards as they are being dealt. 

“Well aren’t you damn efficient,” Decker says, grinning. And there is nothing of a friend in the gesture. 

“Considering how often Anderson insists on me doing this –“

“Because _you_ unlike some other people here who will not be named have some sense of decency when partaking in games of chance,” Anderson cuts in.

Shiro simply shrugs, smiling amicably. “There you have it.”

“Well, if you’re not playing this round, then how about a question?”

Decker lifts the can to his lips, holding it there with eyebrows raised. A look is passed around the table, carefully curious in the way the members of a Mexican standoff tended to be. Miller clears his throat. Shiro keeps his gaze trained on Decker, the smile on his lips still relaxed and friendly. 

“Go for it.”

Decker’s mouth pulls wider still as he lifts his index finger from his can and points right at Shiro before taking a sip. “So, if he’s not a charity case, then what is he? You drag him around here. You take him under your wing. . .”

Shiro pulls himself upright once more, cutting the remaining cards over and over. Not once does he look in Keith’s direction but never has Keith felt himself so acutely observed. 

“He’s a damn good pilot.”

“We’ve got a handful of those. And all of them have a lot more than anything that kid – “ And here Decker twists around in his seat and points at Keith this time. “- no offense but I’m just curious here – “ 

Then he’s turning back to look at Shiro, a smile sweeter than molasses and just as sickening coating his lips. The sort of smile people get when they’re telling someone _I’m sorry_ when they’re not, or that they’re simply curious when in fact they want nothing more than to gut someone with their own insecurities and faults. Keith knows that smile, and he knows that voice, and it takes one glance from Shiro, a simple shake of his head, to keep Keith in his seat instead of smashing that can right into Decker’s mouth. 

And Decker seems to know precisely what Keith had been thinking, because he’s holding a finger out towards Keith, wagging it at him just below the line of sight of all the others. 

“ – and if you took on any of those other kids, Shiro, you’d have it made for yourself. A top pilot looking after some prestigious family’s brat?” Decker snorts out a laugh. “Make a hero out of him? Fuck, you’d never have to really work a goddamned day in your life. So, tell me, what’s this kid got that’s so much better than all of that?”

“Actual talent,” Shiro replies, point blank, his voice solid as ice in a midwinter’s freeze. “And I bet he’s going to show you just how the dust settles over your own records.”

Keith’s breath is caught in his lungs. And he wants to breathe, needs to breathe, but nothing in him will work quite right. Least of all his heart.

Decker’s grin turns sadistic in its pleasure. “And what about your records?”

Shiro shrugs then, giving the cards one last shuffle before setting them on the table soundlessly. Keith catches a glance in his direction, brief but full of a confidence that sets his heart hammering and puts an ache right into its beat, and he watches as Shiro turns that same gaze on Decker, as his lips curl with a smile, full and unapologetic.

“Maybe those too,” Shiro states. “I told you, he’s just that good.”

A sharp clap cuts across the room. Keith almost jumps at the sound, head jerking to the left to fix on the source. 

“And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen.” Anderson is standing up now, his arms held out at his sides like a ringmaster parading his best line up for the crowd. And when he grins, it is big and bold and just a touch ruthless. He picks up a silver can from the table, which Keith realizes now is not any sort of soda at all but beer, and presents it to each of the men around him. “Now can we get this fucking card game started or do you all just want to give me your money and call it a day?”

Laughter, along with a slew of curses, breaks out over the table. Keith finds his breath steadying once more and returns the smile Shiro flashes at him. It’s warm and knowing and whispering of an apology Keith knows Shiro has no need to make. Because he had been brilliant just then, and every ounce of Keith wants nothing more than to be away from this place and all its politics and protocols. 

Alone with Shiro. Just them and the stars. 

“Shiro, get Keith something to drink. If he’s everything you say he is, then he’ll be coming here on his own in a few months anyway,” Miller says, his eyes steadfast on Keith as he speaks. There’s nothing unkind in the stare, though Keith gets the feeling he’s being measured regardless. But unlike Decker, Miller seems satisfied with what’s before him, and without another word he’s turning to nudge McLaughlin in the shoulder, telling him to quit ruining his posture with his constant slouching.

After that, the pilots settle into their game, poker Keith eventually figures out, amidst several rounds of swear words and pauses called for drink refills and warnings not to cheat. Shiro sinks into the couch beside him, offering him a soda.

“It’s not usually this bad.”

“What's that you're talking about, Shiro? This is the place for the wretched and godawful – the Garrison’s absolute best!” Mendoza laughs, not a trace of malice or ill-intention in the sound. A complete contradiction to his words. “It’s always bad in here.”

“I was just trying to be –“

“Straight-laced?” Miller.

“Stuffy?” McLaughlin.

“Mr. By-the-Books?” Decker.

“Hoity-toity?” Anderson, with his beer can held high and his pinky finger out. 

“And he’s not, Keith, so please don’t ever think that,” Mendoza finishes. “And what the fuck, Anderson, who even says that anymore?”

Anderson gives a hiccup of a shrug before bringing his beer to his lips.

Shiro is glaring daggers, fingers pressed firmly to his temple, and Keith is trying his best not to burst out laughing because he already knows all of these things and it is what makes Shiro so fantastically human. 

“Keith – “

“I know. You’re not straight-laced, stuffy. . .”

Shiro groans beside him, head falling into his hands. “And there he goes, my last ally. . .”

“So melodramatic, Shiro. . .” Mendoza calls over his cards, a grin just visible upon his lips. “You might be alone, but at least you’re not dead yet!”

Rocking himself back into the cushions, Shiro spreads his arms out along the back of the couch and lets his head drop over the top edge. “You’re right. I’m just going to sit here, dying slowly via bad puns and judgments over my nature.”

Keith is still smiling when he sinks back against the couch as well, soda clasped between his hands. Shiro glances over at him, offering a playful wink, which sparks something electric in Keith’s pulse and has his gaze shooting for the ceiling seconds later. Because counting all the various nicks in the plaster seems a much better idea than courting death over everything that Shiro is. His fingers dig into the aluminum can, causing it to give a metallic shriek in protest. 

“So. . .does Iverson come here?” It’s a place to start an escape, or so Keith thinks.

Decker immediately starts laughing, a boom of a sound that has everyone in the room looking at him in its wake. “Seriously? This kid just busted Iverson’s balls, and now he’s asking about his favorite hangout spots. . .” 

The look Decker shoots over at Shiro is completely different from the ones before. A whole lot less of his desire to maim, and instead something almost like camaraderie defining it. Enough of a suggestion of it at least to make Keith second guess all the dark and murderous thoughts he had been entertaining about the guy just minutes ago. Shiro does look a bit smug though, like a self-satisfied cat - _I said what I said and did what I did and looks like I was right all along_.

Miller shifts in his seat, setting his cards down and waving across them. “Only when he wants to remind himself he’s not as old as you all like to make him think he is.”

Shiro tugs lightly on the hair sticking out at the back of Keith’s neck. Not a glance towards him, no single specter of acknowledgment that he had done anything at all, and yet Keith is left wanting to touch and stroke, to confirm that Shiro had been there. 

“He’s still kind of up there,” Shiro tosses out, a smile sitting quiet in the corner of his mouth. 

Keith could have told himself he imagined the whole thing if not for that slight curve to Shiro’s lips.

“No one wants to hear that from the kid who’s barely older than the squirt over there,” Decker retorts. Not that he sounds like he’s carrying any particular fondness for Iverson, but more of a desire to needle an all too tempting target. 

_So much for friendship_ , Keith thinks as he rubs at the back of his head.

“But I can still fly circles around you.”

“Oh, to be young, brash and dumb again. . .” Miller laments into his now empty glass. He gives it a little shake, the residual ice cubes clinking mournfully. 

“Better than old and cranky,” Mendoza quips.

Miller puffs himself up a little, a sly smirk coiling over the left edge of his mouth. “I like to think of myself as well aged, thank you very much. . . .” A pause, and with it, Keith can’t help but note the way the entire room waits for him. “And I’m still not nearly as old as Iverson.”

Decker barks out another laugh, lifting his soda over the center of the table. “Cheers to that!”

The room falls to further laughter afterward, along with calls for more drinks and Anderson telling everyone to pay up. Shiro pokes Keith in the shoulder then, tipping his head towards the door. Pulling himself to his feet, he extends one hand for Keith.

“Time to put the kids to bed already, huh?”

“Time for dinner, Anderson. It’s only six,” Shiro answers with a shake of his head and a smile comfortable on his lips. “Try not to lose everything this time.”

“Good sir, how you wound me!” But Anderson is already waving towards the door, his attention drifting back to Mendoza as he starts dealing out the cards. “Always with the parting blows. Don’t go following his example, Keith! He’s a terrible influence.”

“Keith, don’t listen to Anderson. He’s drunk and stupid, and the stupidity happened before he got drunk.” Miller motions towards the door as well, his eyes meeting Shiro’s and then Keith’s for a brief moment each. Then he’s turning back to the game as well, an odd little smirk parked at the corner of his mouth.

And Keith feels like he’s passed some examination he didn’t even know he was taking or should have been taking, only that he had been measured and maybe. . .maybe he hasn’t been found as utterly wanting as most in the Garrison tend to make him feel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I say I love Ed Sheeran? Because I do. Bloodstream made writing this so easy. 
> 
> That said, I hope you all enjoy this next part!

Above him, the sky has rolled itself out in the blues and purples of daytime’s death, cool and calming over the earth. His gaze drifts from one star to another as they shimmer into existence, tracing lines between each point until the sky is a network of dreams. And he imagines, for just a moment, that any number of them are within his reach. That somewhere out there a future is waiting for him, bright enough to banish the shadows of his past. 

For Keith, night is a never-ending ocean of stars and light and freedom. 

“Figured I would find you out here. . .”

A cup is held out for him, the faint scent of peppermint rising with the steam and putting a stillness in the center of Keith’s soul. He reaches up, taking the cup from Shiro’s hand with a brush of fingertips that leaves a faint blush dusting his cheekbones. 

“Thanks.”

Shiro settles down on the step just below him, only a few inches of space separating his shoulder and Keith’s left knee. His hair is still a bit damp, and while Shiro would have chastised Keith for leaving his own hair in such a state, Keith only smiles because the air is summer-warm and he knows it will take only minutes for the dark strands to dry completely. By the time the desert has time to strip the heat from the world around them, Keith also knows they will be back inside and the nighttime chill forgotten entirely. 

For now though, they sit in silence and it’s the best sort of luxury Keith can imagine ever wanting. Shiro exhales softly and slowly sips at his tea, occasionally blowing out over its surface. Keith watches the way Shiro's lips purse together, light but dedicated to the task, watches the way the dark contents of the cup ripple in response. A shiver cuts down his spine then. In its wake, Shiro lets his shoulder lean into Keith, reassuring, and just as Keith's heart starts to clamor at the touch, Shiro reaches out and points towards the sky.

His voice is low and soothing. “Do you remember that one?”

Keith sometimes wishes Shiro would talk on forever. About everything that makes him whole, about all the stupid little things in their lives that amount to nothing much at all but somehow complete the experience of being human in this world. The quiet cadence of Shiro’s voice in these moments is the only thing he has found that challenges his love of silence and the still of night. 

“Yeah. . .it’s Cygnus, right?” A response once Keith thinks he can trust himself to speak. 

Shiro laughs quietly, putting a faint tremble through his shoulders that reverberates right down Keith’s leg. He remembers Shiro telling him the story behind it, like he had with so many of the other stars sparking bright in the sky, of a fate ill-met not unlike Icarus, where Phaethon found himself at the mercy of his father’s chariot, the horses blazing across the earth and sky, and all of them lost to the river below, thunder struck, for the sake of saving the world. And how his brother or his lover – Shiro had laughed a little then, digressing into how malleable myth tended to be when it came to those sorts of things – had dove again and again into the river just to find the pieces of everything he had loved so dearly. 

In pity, the gods turned him into a swan and set him amongst the stars. 

Shiro had looked so strange to Keith when he had finished telling that tale, his gaze hazy with far-off thoughts and this small, wretchedly beautiful bit of a smile over his lips. Keith had first kissed him then, not knowing why but feeling there was no better response, and all the while, in the back of his head, he kept wondering why it was the gods always insisted on turning the heartbroken and devoted into constellations. 

Keith wants to kiss Shiro right now, so much it has put a rattle into his heartbeat and this odd searing pain in his lungs. Like the air’s oxygen has been dissipating with every breath taken, with him none the wiser, and now he’s left scrambling for the last life-giving bits of it. He shuts his eyes, letting the heat from his cup scald his fingertips, a last minute saving grace. 

“Keith?”

The concern that slips into Shiro’s voice is agonizing. Because what has he done to deserve any of this? Half the time he wants to lash out at the world, because as much as it tries to define him he can barely define himself. Because he has nothing to base anything upon, and how do you build something up when it doesn’t even have a foundation to begin with? And Shiro is sitting there, perfect and calm and so wonderfully attuned to all that he is, and Keith isn’t even sure he knows his own frequency, so how is it that Shiro. . .

He hears the ceramic _chink_ of a cup being set aside, and moments later, there is the press of a palm against his cheek and lips warm against his forehead. Keith finally exhales, the sound unstable as it shakes its way out of him.

“Everything okay?” Shiro murmurs against skin.

Keith gives a small, abbreviated nod. “Yeah. . .”

Shiro goes quiet for a moment. He sets his forehead against Keith's, his breath coming out warm over lips, and when Keith opens his eyes, he finds the dark grey of Shiro’s staring right into him. Always searching, like he’s picking through the wreckage of Keith’s thoughts.

“You’re not still thinking about what Decker said last week, are you?”

“. . .he’s right though,” Keith answers, and he hates how thready his voice sounds, so close to snapping. “I don’t really have anything. No past. . .no family. . .There are so many other pilots in this place who could have offered you so much more, just like he said.” 

“Keith.” His name comes out firm, fully grounded. Shiro pulls back slightly, letting his thumb brush over Keith’s cheek before he takes his hand away and sets it on Keith’s knee. “I didn’t get where I am today because of any of that. So, don’t go letting a name or whatever clout you think a family might have go blinding you to your own worth.”

The world suddenly goes blurry before him, and it takes a solid minute before Keith realizes there are tears filling his eyes as the sharp ache in his chest unknots itself, dispersing into something crackling and warm instead. 

“Besides, what have you been doing all this time? Eighteen years, and you want to say that’s nothing? You’ve _lived_. You have a life. You are here and there is a whole universe waiting for you.”

“Shiro. . .” And this time, his voice does shatter. Soft and broken, just waiting to be made whole once again. 

A smile, warm with unyielding acceptance, spreads across Shiro’s mouth. He sets his other hand over Keith’s head, bowing it forward against his own.

“And you know. . .those things – family, home,” Shiro murmurs into his hair, “. . .they’re a lot like the stars. For people like us, they’re a hell of a lot closer than you think.”

All Keith can do is nod. Because the cup of tea still smells sweet in his hands and Shiro is larger than life, a house all his own.

*

Keith had let himself sniffle for all of five minutes against Shiro’s chest before he was trying to extricate himself to the sound of Shiro’s laughter, soft and bright as desert moonlight. Muttering how he had to go take a shower before it was too late, only they both knew there was no such thing, and he had left Shiro standing on the porch with two cups of tea and an affectionate smile upon his lips.

The water runs lukewarm over his skin, as it always did. Keith is fairly certain the ‘H’ on the shower knob doesn’t stand for hot but _hope you enjoy whatever temperature you get_. But none of that matters because the slight chill of the water is enough to solidify his emotions, just enough so he could place them back where they belonged. 

When he finally emerges, it’s with only the slightest bit of red to his eyes and his heart beating right once more. Shiro is sitting on the edge of the couch, flipping through a Garrison newsletter that is several days old and telling him nothing he probably didn’t already know. Keith pads over barefoot and shirtless, noting the two cups now drying on a kitchen cloth and the way Shiro turns his gaze from him far too quickly. 

“I could’ve at least washed them,” Keith says, awkwardly gesturing towards the small bit of countertop by the sink as he slides into the space left by Shiro’s knees. 

The newsletter is forgotten with a toss to the side. Shiro shuts his eyes briefly, exhales shakily. The corner of his mouth kicks upwards, the smirk looking strained. “Had to occupy myself with something while you were in there.” 

“Should I have taken longer?”

Shiro shakes his head slowly, the dark strands over his forehead tickling at Keith’s stomach. His fingers dig into the couch cushions, vice-like as they seek some sort of hold over control. Keith’s heart stops, breath held as he leans in against Shiro’s thighs. And he watches, captivated, as fingers release their hold, pried away digit by digit by the temptation offered. With a low sigh, Shiro sets his hands against Keith’s hips, his forehead falling against stomach. 

“It’s the last day of leave. . .” 

Shiro nods his head in answer, his eyes still closed. 

“When do you have to go?”

Lips brush against skin when Shiro answers, and it leaves Keith shuddering under his grasp. “Two weeks from tomorrow. . .”

“But I have you tonight. . .”

And Shiro nods again, his eyes opening as he tilts his head to look up at Keith. 

Something cuts into his chest then, deep and unrelenting, painful in all the ways Keith has come to associate these moments with Shiro, those moments when he is always so close, too close. It’s an ache he looks forward to, heartbeat stuttering and breath going rapid. Keith places his hands to Shiro’s cheeks and leans down, lids falling shut over his eyes as his lips meet Shiro’s and there is nothing left of him in that moment. Just the heat flourishing where they’re connected, everything it promises him of Shiro. 

In the next moment, his left knee is buckling, sinking into the cushions between Shiro’s legs as he pulls them both back towards the couch. Keith reaches out blindly until his right hand falls against the backrest, barely catching on the pillows. Shiro moans softly as Keith arches into the kiss. Hands abandon his hips, sliding up along his sides then back down again. They curve around his back, fingers skating towards the base of his spine. Seconds later Keith is left gasping into Shiro’s mouth as he’s tugged into his lap. 

The next kiss Shiro gives is laced with a smile. He then nips at Keith’s lower lip, light and experimental. 

Keith’s mouth drops open, a small breath expelled with surprised delight, one he quickly tries to silence. Already he can feel the heat lighting up his cheeks, but to his shock, Shiro is blushing just as bright below him. 

Shiro casts his gaze away, examining some point on Keith’s shoulder with undue scrutiny, and coughs out softly a second later. “That was. . .”

“. . .good?” Keith supplies.

The crimson deepens over Shiro’s cheeks. From the corner of his eye, he catches Keith’s gaze. “You liked it?”

“Yeah,” Keith murmurs, heated, as he leans in to take Shiro’s mouth once again. And Shiro complies without complaint, lips going soft and slack when Keith’s tongue pushes forward. Shiro’s mouth is hot, and everywhere he touches, Keith is certain fingerprints have been seared onto his skin, and somehow, he doesn’t mind that thought because he can think of nothing better than the imprint of Shiro across his body.

Warmth starts to coil in his core, a flame spun into existence and burning brighter with every quiet sound slipping from Shiro as he forgets he is a soldier and remembers he is just a man. No more than any other, and maybe no better, but he is Keith’s and in that he is worth more than a galaxy of stars and all the wishes made upon them. 

Shiro bites gently at Keith’s lip once again, and this time, Keith moans with abandon. He brings his hands to cup the sides of Shiro’s neck, letting fingers glide upwards until palms are settled along Shiro’s jaw and fingers brush light beneath his ears. Just like that, they pause, breathless. Keith smiles against Shiro’s lips, something fluttering fiercely within his chest when Shiro’s lips answer in kind. 

Shiro laughs then, sound muted but undeniably carefree. “You are making this very difficult for me.”

Keith wiggles his hips a little, eyes lit with mischief. “We don’t have to stop. . .”

Teeth sink into Shiro’s lower lip as he dips his head and presses it heavy against Keith’s shoulder. Keith imagines there’s a flood of curses just waiting on his tongue and it brings him some sense of victory if nothing else. Shiro’s breathing turns ragged for one long moment. Keith runs his right hand up the back of Shiro’s neck, letting fingers slide into his hair, and when Shiro finally rolls his head enough for Keith to catch his gaze, he gives the strands a light tug.

“You still haven’t told me what you want for your birthday. . .”

Keith’s lips pull together, forming a perfect little pout. Diversion tactics 101.

Still, Shiro is looking at him expectantly, completely earnest, and that has its own charms. 

He sinks back against his heels and Shiro’s thighs, his hand falling to the nape of Shiro’s neck where he leaves it so fingertips can rub light and reminding. An eyebrow quirks upward as he studies Shiro’s face. There’s still traces of fire burning in his eyes, telling him that the thoughts Shiro had been entertaining just moments before had also been in complete earnest. 

And isn’t that answer enough?

Keith presses forward, each inch carefully measured, and when his lips part, the corners curve with the whisper of a smile. Something blazes to life in Shiro’s gaze at the sight. As he brushes his lips against Shiro’s, Keith doesn’t kiss, doesn’t move, doesn’t breath. Still as a hurricane’s eye.

He watches as Shiro’s gaze drops to the space between them, imagining the shape of Keith’s mouth he thinks, then lifts to meet Keith’s eyes once more. He breathes out, the effort causing his core to tremble.

And that is when Keith finally offers his answer. “I already know what I want. . .”

Eyelids shutter Shiro’s gaze quickly, his head turning to the side. 

“ _Fuck_. . .”

It’s so beautifully whispered, strained with want and every reserved ounce of control Shiro has mustered up. He’s there, shaking his head like a pendulum, beat by beat, second by second, lost to time.

“When I come back. . .” Shiro says, the tension like a noose around his voice, “. . .when I come back, tell me then. Everything that you want.”

He exhales heavily, a man obliterated, and lets his head sink against Keith’s chest. 

“We’ll have a lot to celebrate. Between the mission and you. . .”

As disappointed as Keith wants to be, he can’t locate the feeling anywhere. Only the pleasure of a promise made.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is probably the darkest out of the four, though the last one will have its fair share of things as well. Despite that, I hope you enjoy this one! (And if you want some music - "There are Some Remedies Worse Than the Disease" by This Will Destroy You)

There are days like this in the desert, where the skies crowd full with grey clouds, but the rain forgets to fall. They simply sit there, hovering with the promise of everything and offering nothing instead. Like everything down here has already been bled so dry it simply wouldn’t be worth the effort of trying to revive it. 

So, the sky grows dark and the air burns humid, and nothing ever makes it to the earth. 

It’s been one week since they lost communication with Shiro’s ship. Seven days over which they said they were still looking into the matter, so if everyone could just spare a bit of patience while answers were sought.

_Bear with us please. We remain as concerned as the rest of you. . ._

While political maneuvers were made and the right words were found to send them all off into memory. It would be a wonderful bit of eulogy, the rise and fall of a man packaged and complete. 

As mortal as the rest of them.

Keith can’t help the bitterness that rises like bile at the back of his throat every time he thinks about the whole affair. He had, in fact, thrown up when the news was first released. It didn’t hit him initially though. Instead, he remembers feeling like someone had cut a hole in the bottom of his stomach and all the contents and every bit of what he was had drained right out of him. And maybe that’s why he hadn’t puked right then because there was nothing left in him. He had wandered through the rest of day, blind and unfeeling, with the whispers of everyone trailing like forgotten ghosts behind him.

_Wasn’t it a damn shame the best of them had to be lost? Well, maybe he wasn’t that perfect. Everyone makes mistakes, and his just had to go taking several people out with him._

_It’s horrific. It’s unfortunate. But these things can happen._

_Who’s going to save you with him gone? And now. . .now you have nothing._

The minute Keith had made it back to his room that night, everything lurched up out of his throat, and he had spent the better part of the evening draped across the bathroom sink, trying not to stare into the hollow of his own eyes. 

He didn’t eat anything the next day.

It's been seven days since the world fell out from beneath him. His gaze drifts to the sky as he wipes a bead of sweat from his temple. The cabin’s porch feels larger than life to him right now, this vast empty space that used to be cozy enough for two. Along the horizon, lightning cuts purple across the sky. Seconds later, thunder reverberates over the land. And still, nothing falls. All it does is put an electric hum in the air, pent-up and irritating against his ears.

Keith brings his arms up and around his head, palms pressing against the back of his skull hard as he leans forward against his knees. The last time he had sat out here, the sky had been full of stars, and Shiro had been warm beside him. Keith can still hear his words, confident in everything that he could ever be, telling him again and again of the weight of his worth. And the thing is that Keith didn’t really need to hear it because Shiro held it in his hands every chance he got, this heavy, promising thing that had always ever been Keith.

Shiro had always seen the life in him and had never once let Keith forget it.

But now. . .now, there are only whispers in his head, drifting aimlessly in the void. Haunting him like all good things from the past should, particularly when they are lost to space and time.

And Keith – he’s never felt so lost in his entire life. 

His lungs seize up, heartbeat tumbling into a panic. He forces his gaze from the step below him and looks through the fringe of his bangs over the empty of the desert. The world is water-drowned, colors and forms blurring together like paint spilled recklessly over a palette, and he cannot even begin to remember when it is that the tears sprung loose. But they are there, and there is nothing he can do to stop them.

Another hole cut into him, more things pouring out. 

He pulls his head back down to his knees again. When the first sob breaks free, it does so only after burning its way out of his throat, the sound coming out raw and broken. The next breath he takes goes down like acid, caustic but so painfully necessary. Fingers dig into the back of his head; Keith screws his eyes shut. Darkness swallows his world, and for one brief moment, he wonders just what it is that someone has to do to get themselves tossed into the night.

Wonders what god would find him and take pity, break him into starlight and set him in the sky. 

That way, he could return to the closest bit of home he has ever let himself have.

*

Three weeks have passed, and still they ask for patience.

Keith is finding that he doesn’t have a whole lot of that left in his tank, particularly when the one responsible for filling it has his picture splashed across the screens of the Garrison’s network, smiling as bright as everyone knew him to be with the label _currently missing_ dancing just beneath his name. It still turns Keith’s stomach every time he sees it, but he’s gotten better at managing the pain. 

Or perhaps it’s the anger that’s started to creep in, slowly burning its way through his heart and leaving him with nothing more than a handful of ashes in reminder. He thinks he can sweep those to the corner of his mind, but the rumors and the whispers are making a terrible clutter in those spaces, and with every passing day, he’s finding it harder to ignore the remnants of all he felt.

The things, if he is being honest, he still feels. Exquisitely, painfully deep. 

It lets him know that not every wound will leave a scar. Some of them sit there, open for the prodding and wretchedly slow to heal. 

Most of the Garrison stays out of his way now, interacting with him only when classes demand it, and even then, it comes with trepidation from some and outright annoyance from others. Because as good as he is, he’s no better than a half-tamed tiger, and in the end, his recklessness will only get them all killed.

_If you’re so hellbent on dying, make sure you’re the only one on deck when you go._

Keith hadn’t spent that much time in Iverson’s office since his first three months at the Garrison.

*

There is blood on his knuckles. It’s drip-drip-dripping on the floor, far too slowly Keith thinks like the sand got stuck in the hourglass and time forgot how to move properly. And all around him, the world has gone end-of-all-days silent, but there’s still this electric buzz in his ears.

Maybe there’s a storm sitting on the horizon again, the sky nothing more than a frustrated black that will leave the earth as thirst-starved as before.

He looks down at his hand, bewildered for a moment by the red across his skin. Then, his heart reminds him that he is standing _right here_ , and that his breathing is rapid, and his mind riotous. And he remembers what had started it all, but before he can do anything more, fingers are digging tight into his arms, pulling him away.

The last thing Keith sees is Iverson staring at him, shaking his head, and the blood staining his lips vivid crimson. 

He’s thrown into the pilot's lounge a minute later. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, huh?!”

Keith figures sending a fist at Decker’s face is the best answer he can give. He strides forward, fury bubbling in his core once more, and just as his arm loads the hit, Decker’s hand is wrapping tight around his wrist. Keith tries to pull himself loose, once, twice, then screams in utter outrage as Decker’s fingers only bite down harder into the flesh beneath.

“I hope you have a damn good story to back you up on this one,” Miller cuts in from across the room.

Eyes narrowing, Keith turns to glare at him next. “They’re lying about him! They’re covering something up, or they just don’t care –“

“Welcome to the Garrison, kid. You don’t get answers. You get orders. And you’ll be lucky if they keep you around long enough for that,” Decker states, voice hard but not cold like Keith wants it to be.

Because if it had been, then maybe he could have made something of this and they could both be the monsters the world wants them to be. Just a little more fuel to the fire that had started to sputter since Decker’s hand had wrapped around his wrist with that damage-control tight grip.

And Keith wants it all to burn. Because they would rather drag Shiro’s reputation as a pilot through the mud and save themselves the trouble of an actual explanation. Because if he let it all burn, then he could forget the pain that had been carving itself deep as a memory into all that he was.

But Decker is holding him firm, and every attempt Keith makes to break himself free is met with remorseless reality – he can’t escape.

Miller finally makes his way over, a cup of water in his hand. Keith glances between him and Decker, his eyes still narrowed. Miller’s gaze drops to the fist Decker stopped, and it’s only when Keith realizes he’s examining the blood over his knuckles that he feels something get snuffed out inside of him. His hand goes slack.

“Sit down,” Miller commands.

Decker pushes Keith down into the couch behind him. Thunder booms loud as an artillery shot in the distance. 

Miller pulls up a chair and sets it squarely in front of Keith. When he sits himself down, Keith is reminded of the way Shiro used to string himself together whenever he was preparing to _offer some good advice_. His eyes start to sting, but he refuses to look away from the men standing before him. 

“Do you have any idea what your track record looks like?” Miller asks, quietly, like a man standing on the precipice of defeat. Keith simply glares mutinous in response. “At this moment, you don’t have the top pilot in the Garrison looking out for you. In fact, his entire record is probably under review right now because of everything. And now you’ve just gone and assaulted your goddamned commanding officer. . .You’re nothing better than a wolf finally let off its chain as far as they’re concerned.”

“I’m not –“ Keith starts to protest, feeling the scorch of anger singe him once more. 

“You _assaulted_ your commanding officer! That’s a cardinal sin, kid!” Decker cuts him off. “If you’re lucky, the school will give you a trial. . .”

Keith pushes away from the back of the couch, furious, his eyes flashing bright behind the tears. “They’re going to turn Shiro into something he isn’t!”

“And just who the hell is going to replace Shiro, huh? It should be you! You’re next up, and they probably would’ve fast-tracked your graduation if you hadn’t pulled that fucking stupid stunt.”

Keith stares up at Decker, his voice run raw with far too much emotion when he speaks. “I don’t _want_ a promotion. . .”

“Then what do you want? Why are you even here?” Miller questions, quiet as before, but there is nothing weak about his words. They are solid, present and condemning as they force Keith to admit the last thing he has wanted to over the last few weeks.

Keith turns his gaze away from the two men. He focuses on the makeshift bar in the corner, tries not to remember the last time he was here and the surprise of a touch against the back of his neck. Light and playful.

He swallows hard. “I want Shiro. . .”

“He’s not here,” Miller tells him, voice steady and clear as rain. 

“Do you think I don’t know that. . .” Keith growls.

“You know there’s more to you than that. Shiro always insisted on that much. You’ve got something, right?” Miller continues, kind but unremitting in his prodding.

Keith wants to hate him, but all he can do is shake his head and try to keep the tremor out of his voice. “I have nothing.”

Miller sighs, and just when Keith thinks he’s about to lay a lecture on him, he blinks and reaches into his jacket pocket. He pulls out his communicator, thumb flicking over the screen, and as it lights up, his expression starts to harden. He passes the device to Decker, who studies it in silence.

“Well, you’re about to have a whole hell of a lot of time to find yourself something.”

Keith blinks, confusion overriding his despair. The corners of his mouth twist, a frown threatening to sink them when he looks up at Decker and sees him absolutely stonefaced. Like he’s staring down death itself, all contained in one small black device. A perfect harbinger. 

“What - ?”

“You’re getting summoned,” Decker says flatly.

“You said I would.”

“No, he said you would probably get a trial, which meant a chance to defend yourself and maybe get some other records on statement for anyone wanting to support you. This isn’t that.”

Keith can’t help but note the irritation clipping Miller’s words.

“What is a summons then exactly?”

Miller exhales heavily, sitting back in the chair with a loud creak and running a hand over his face. His expression speaks of exhaustion. “It means they’ve made their decision.”

Keith’s eyebrow shoots up, questioning.

“It means you’re getting expelled, kid.”

Decker turns then, aiming a stream of curses at the ceiling. But all Keith can hear is the cutting _smack!_ of rain against the window panes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally the end! There are some spoilers for S2 so fair warning! I feel like I haven't written something like this, by which I mean really protracted sex/build-up, in a very long time so I sincerely apologize for any of the shortcomings in this chapter. That said, I do hope some of you enjoy the end of this story and thank you all for following along with it!
> 
> And finally, since I've had it for the last two chapters, song choice: Follow You Down To the Red Oak Tree by James Vincent McMorrow

He’s standing here, with only the midnight hour and a handful of incomplete thoughts for company. Standing with his hands at his sides, vacillating between fists ready to strike and palms flat as they tread the air, both aspects useless. Over and over, his fingers curl. Over and over, they unfurl. His thoughts scatter, time trudges on, and still he is standing here.

Trapped by uncertainty. 

It’s been a week since Shiro returned. And in that time, Keith has left Earth galaxies behind, has fought his way to fledgling hero status, and has yet to _actually_ talk to the man who still spurred his heartbeat into a headlong gallop. 

And this is the third night he has stood here, just steps away from the place Shiro holed himself in at night. Keith had convinced himself to turn away the two previous nights, to let Shiro sleep off the demons Keith had seen ghosting through his eyes in those all too brief moments back in the desert days ago. Those ones Keith hadn’t known what to do about because never had he seen such monsters lurking in the shadows of Shiro’s gaze. 

Keith shuts his eyes and presses his forehead lightly against the door to Shiro’s room. He counts down the months that Shiro had been gone, the time that had eaten away at his heart but hadn’t touched his soul or his desire, and he thinks that maybe if he follows time in reverse, then maybe he might find something of himself again.

Maybe he might find Shiro too. 

Because it has been a week, and Shiro has been nothing but stellar as captain for their ragtag group of universal saviors. Still undeniably human in all the ways Keith had come to love, in the ways that made them all look to him and listen even when they didn’t particularly want to. He always says what needs to be said, shouldering the world and all its would-be disasters because there are things he had seen that Keith knew nothing about, and it makes him ache to think that Shiro has never been so far away from him.

The door slides open suddenly then, and with it, Keith tumbles forward right into Shiro’s arms. 

“Whoa there. . .”

His heart stumbles at the sound, soft and wonderful and everything Keith remembers Shiro had been. Fingers close in around his biceps, steadying him, the touch light and careful. Keith inhales sharply, and something coils tight and hard within his chest. 

“Sorry. . .I was . . .”

He can’t find a way to finish that. So instead, Keith allows himself the chance to glance upward and finds himself staring into the deep grey of Shiro’s eyes, into a look laced with concern on the surface but tightly shuttered beneath it. A look that is perfectly controlled, regimented in all the ways experience would do to a man, and it set a sharp ache pulsing in Keith’s core. 

Just beneath his eyes, Shiro’s skin has gone dark, haunted by lack of sleep, and there’s a faint sheen to his forehead though the air is so carefully regulated in the castle, Keith has to wonder how anyone could work up a sweat without considerable exertion. And he knows, underneath the too-obvious smile Shiro is offering him and the lies he could tell himself so that they could both walk away from this without any damage, that even now he knows all that Shiro is and this. . . _this_ is not something he can simply leave. 

“. . .out for a walk?” Shiro supplies, though there’s an edge to his voice Keith doesn’t quite recognize. 

And he could nod at that, could play this off like some random chance meeting in the dead of night, but he can’t. 

“No, I was here for you.”

Shiro’s brow furrows, his gaze drifting to the side. The fingers around Keith’s arms dig in slightly - five far too human in their touch, five mechanical-smooth and as foreign to Keith as Coran’s logic and the green goop that passes for a balanced meal in the castle. He glances down at Shiro’s right hand, and within seconds, he finds nothing touching him at all. Gone like a pheasant startled from the brush and leaving him with the impression that he had just missed something beautiful. Shiro takes a step back into his room, looking far too lost as his gaze scours its inner contents – the too small desk, the bed with its rumpled sheets, the window that offers a view of a sky neither of them rightly knows. 

Keith steps inside after him and waits for the quiet _swoosh_ of the door as it slides shut behind him. 

“Is everything okay, Shiro?” he asks, hesitant though everything within him is screaming at him to swallow the distance between them.

He doesn’t get an immediate answer. Instead, Shiro turns the room inside out with his gaze, running his right hand through his hair, and after finding absolutely nothing worthy for making a plausible escape, finally focuses his gaze on Keith. A smile settles over his lips, weighted with the makings of defeat. 

“If by okay you mean barely sleeping over the last four days, then yeah, I’m doing great. After all, who really needs sleep, right?”

Keith can’t help but laugh then. It bubbles up out of him, sudden and warm with relief, and it leaves him with the idea that he should be crying but just like the desert, the storm hits and it leaves everything fantastically, horribly dry. So, all he can do is laugh and let the sound go soft and raw within his throat. With one answer, Keith finds what he had been looking for. Shiro starts to smile, this small apologetic pull over his lips, and quite frankly, it is the most beautiful thing Keith has seen in months. 

“I missed you so much. . .”

Shiro nods then as his hand drops from where it had been tangling with his hair. “Yeah. . .I. . .” The smile on his lips takes a turn into the tragic, still as breathlessly beautiful but making Keith hurt with the desire to touch him. “. . .I know.”

When Shiro turns, it’s with a kick of his head towards the bed. Keith follows, the hesitation draining from his steps as he moves barefoot in Shiro’s shadow and sinks down into the mattress beside him. Silence blankets them, leaving Keith to soak in the quiet of Shiro’s breathing beside him. It gives him the time and Shiro gives him the freedom to fully take in the situation as it is: Shiro’s bed is a mess, the pillow upended over in the opposite corner of the room, and the sheets aren’t simply unmade but twisted up like a tornado’s funnel and hinting at all of its violence, and there are scars gleaming silver over Shiro’s body, marking him from the hips up in wayward patterns that whispered of all the things a man can survive when forced to. 

The last place Keith’s gaze settles is on the clean line cutting across Shiro’s right bicep, designating where human began and something else resided. 

“I thought about you. . .” Shiro starts, voice near inaudible, but in the still of the room, Keith hears him far too clearly. All the pain, all the longing, every bit of godawful that could plague a person in their worst hours. “. . .underneath everything that was happening, I thought about you.”

Shiro clasps his hands together, letting his shoulders slump forward as he leans into his thighs. Keith watches as his grip goes tight as a sinner’s seeking salvation, as Shiro’s eyes close tighter still. 

“I didn’t know what to do. . . .I still don’t. . .” Shiro murmurs. “I mean, I get what we have to do - with Voltron and Zarkon. But there’s so much else. . .”

The breath clots in Keith’s throat. It’s always been Shiro walking into the shadows of his life. Not once had Keith thought he would find a whole world of them dwelling around Shiro. His gaze drifts about the room, and as he spots the pillow, he rises to his feet and quietly pads over to retrieve it. When he picks it up, he squeezes it between his palms, then turns to look at Shiro, who is watching him now, silent and curious. 

“You’re still Shiro though,” Keith tells him, his gaze steadfast. And never has anything sounded more certain in his life. Just like he has no past to define him, like the sky is blue and the storm-clouds barely bleed over the desert, like Shiro is the best thing that ever happened to him and there is nothing Keith wouldn’t do for him. 

And this time, it’s Shiro who is laughing, this empty pulse of a sound that is complete and utter devastation. He shakes his head, his gaze dropping to his hands which he holds open now, palms up, emptied of any answers Shiro might have been trying to claim. Keith heads over to him then, setting the pillow down upon the mattress as he slides himself in between Shiro’s thighs, and in doing so, forcing Shiro’s hands to part and grant him admittance. 

He watches as the tremor shuttles down Shiro’s spine, as memory revives and his eyes close once more and the laughter dies soundless on his lips. Keith reaches down and lets his fingers slide through the white of Shiro’s bangs, back into the more familiar black of his hair. At his touch, Shiro exhales harshly, the sound like an aftershock rocking over his lips. 

“After what they did to me, I don’t know who. . .” Shiro begins, then stops as he sets his forehead against Keith’s stomach. “. . .don’t know _what_ I am anymore.”

And there’s not even a breath between Shiro’s confession and Keith’s reply.

“Maybe you don’t. . .but I know you, Shiro.” Keith gently threads his fingers through Shiro’s hair, sets them adrift along the back of his neck, remembering all the things once known, everything that still sparked the same within his soul. Those things that had salvaged him years ago and gave him the foundation of his life today. “And you get to have me.”

Keith’s hand slides down over Shiro's right shoulder, his head tipping to the side as he quietly studies the man seated below him.

“With your Galra arm. . .” Fingertips coast along the line of Shiro’s prosthetic. “. . .And the weight of the Black Lion. . .” And from there they skip to his chest, tracing the line of a scar that points to the space over Shiro’s heart. “. . .Everything that this stupid mess of a universe is. . .”

Shiro’s hands are on his hips, tugging Keith in closer. His eyes are closed, his lips parted, and there is pain written in every line of his face. 

“. . .you get to have me, Shiro.”

Fingers dig into Keith’s lower back. Shiro presses his head heavily against Keith’s abdomen now and doesn’t move for over a minute. And this time, it’s Keith who lets Shiro sink into the stillness of the moment.

“I have done so many things. . .I can barely remember what they are, but I know somehow that I’ve done them.” 

A jagged whisper over his skin, and it puts the knife right against Keith’s heart. His gaze drifts over the coiled sheets, lingering on them as he runs a hand gently up the column of Shiro’s neck. The blood in his heart has dwindled to the murmur of a beat, the air in his lungs like mountain mist, chilled and oppressive. Because he realizes then that the empty Shiro came back with isn’t like his own. Because the things Keith can’t remember are nothing like the blackout of memory Shiro is experiencing. They are things that simply don’t exist to Keith, having been far too young to truly recall and in the end leaving him feeling unfounded but still somehow right enough.

The void in Keith’s memories doesn’t eat up his dreams. It doesn’t turn the night into a monster clawing him awake. 

“Maybe. . .” Keith starts, softly as he pushes through his own shortcomings for this is a place he hasn’t been and Shiro’s footsteps are no longer leading the way. “Maybe that’s true, but it’s not who you are.”

He can feel the way Shiro’s mouth curves against his stomach, hears the small sound of disbelief, and it cuts into Keith in ways new and painful. So, he reaches up then and tugs sharply on Shiro’s hair, disentangling himself from Shiro only to climb onto the bed and park himself at one end. His gaze finds Shiro’s and all the surprise that sits within it, bright against the darkness that still swims beneath. His mouth pulls impossibly tight for a moment, eyes darting to the side and staring out the window like maybe somewhere out there he can find things like composure and calm and all the perfect words to put a soul back together. 

Instead, he sees only himself, reflected back with scowl perfectly intact.

“Listen, I’m not good with this. I’m not you. . .I don’t know what to say or how to say it. But. . .” And here Keith can feel the faultlines starting to shake within his voice. He breathes in, deep and slow. “. . .but I have never once not known who you are, Shiro. And all the things you’ve done, and all the things that were done to you, I don’t think they matter because I’ve seen you here now, and all of it is still good. . .”

His cheeks burn, and it’s only then that Keith realizes he’s been plucking at the sheets beside him, restless little peaks of fabric left in the wake of his fingers. 

“You’ve only ever been good for me, Shiro. . .” he finishes, with the blush wildfire red across his skin and his fingers fidgeting over the bed. 

Shiro starts laughing again, low and gentle and full of a forgotten life. Keith’s gaze snaps upwards and catches as Shiro leans back with his hands flat to the mattress and his eyes closed. Every line of his face relaxed. 

“No, Keith. . .it’s perfect.” Shiro is breathless, a smile bright over his lips. “All of it was perfect. . .”

And now it is Keith who is laughing, trying to wash away his embarrassment with the lightness of its sound. Shiro tosses the pillow at him then, and before Keith can think about throwing it back, Shiro is working his way over. He settles into the space between Keith’s legs, lengthening his body out over the bed, and places his head against Keith’s right thigh. 

It startles Keith into inaction, the pillow held between his hands and his thoughts jammed up to a complete standstill. He exhales as Shiro does the same against his leg, as he watches the tension drain from Shiro’s shoulders and quiet fills the room once more. After a minute, Keith finally shoves the pillow behind his back. Shiro shifts further onto his side, draping his arm across Keith’s leg. 

Something unfurls within Keith’s heart then. He reaches down and sets fingertips light over Shiro’s shoulder, and as he starts to move them, slow and steady across skin, whatever residual tightness that had still harbored in Shiro’s muscles begins to dissipate and his body sinks further into the mattress. 

Bit by bit, Keith draws lines between every scar until Shiro’s skin is littered with constellations. And as he traces each pathway, as Shiro sleeps dreamless, Keith maps out for himself all the points that will always guide him home.

*

“Are you okay?”

It’s Shiro who finds him after they return from his trial with the Blade of Marmora. Unease has crept into the castle in its wake, all the unsaid slithering about the halls just far enough inside the shadows that they can all pretend it doesn’t exist. But Keith can see it, just as he saw the darkness in Shiro’s eyes when he returned to them, just as he remembers the whispers that had always trailed behind him at the Garrison. 

This is a place Keith has been before, and he knows all the things to do even if they aren’t always quite the right ones. He’s survived worse. 

But now Shiro is standing at his door, with his brow knitted in concern and his voice low and comforting. Keith feels something in him bottom out, this odd sinking feeling that hits just when relief comes rushing to the surface with a flurry of bubbles and one life-saving gasp. He exhales sharply, gaze darting to the side, and finally steps aside so Shiro can slip inside his room.

“I’m going to be okay,” Keith answers.

Shiro doesn’t respond at first. He waits until the door is shut behind him, until the quiet settles into the room. As he walks over to Keith’s bed, he turns to look behind him.

“Which tells me you’re not okay. Not right now, at least.”

Keith shrugs, unable to find anything worth saying. Shiro drops onto his bed. 

“They’ll come around, Keith. It’s just. . .something they’ll have to process. Just like you.”

“But that’s just it – “ Keith cuts himself off quickly. His gaze runs about the room until it sets on Shiro, and his heart nearly shatters at the sight. Because there is only acceptance in everything that Shiro is, as he sits there comfortable on his bed with this faint smile on his lips, the one that tells Keith not every hell lasts forever, that he’s more than enough to make it through this world. “I feel like I finally found something of myself back there, and I don’t know if I get to be happy over that because of what that piece of me is. . .”

Shiro tips his head towards the space beside him, and like so many times before, Keith follows the path set willingly. Unable to stop himself from sinking into mattress beside Shiro, with barely a breath’s worth of space between them. 

“You get to be whatever you are,” Shiro tells him quietly. “If it makes you happy, be happy. If you don’t know what to think about it, then take your time to figure it out. It’s not for you to make up everyone’s minds for them. You only have to be you.”

Keith snorts out softly. “You ever stop to think you should take your own advice?”

There’s a puff of laughter blowing out beside him. “Am I that bad?”

“You just say some things worth listening to sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” Shiro muses, pushing against Keith’s shoulder with his own. “Maybe I need to brush up on my leadership skills.”

Keith laughs a little then. “You’re doing all right. . .”

He leans back into Shiro, letting his weight resettle over the mattress, his head tipping in close. “You’re okay with it?”

For a moment, Keith doesn’t know what to think when Shiro’s reply fails to come. Maybe he expected it like some sort of shooting star, dashing out like a blur across the darkness, bright and brilliant and full of hope. Instead, Shiro breathes out softly, letting his head rest against Keith’s, and reaches out to interlace their fingers. Shiro sets their hands between them, right in the space where their thighs touch. 

“That was never a question in my mind,” he murmurs. Keith feels his heart shiver with pleasure, pure and joyous, like the first time he had experienced snow and those initial flakes had hit upon his cheeks, his outstretched hand and Shiro had been grinning at him. 

Softly, Shiro clears his throat. “. . . .’brother’ huh?”

And just like that, Keith feels everything within him freeze. His fingers spasm against Shiro’s in surprise, biting in deep in the aftermath, and his eyes go wide. The smile on Shiro’s lips is strange to him, far too gentle for the moment with this undercurrent of pain. Completely foreign to him. 

“Shiro, that’s not. . .” Keith is scrambling for an answer. He knows it, just as he had known it when he had spoken those words, but faced with it right now has left his thoughts scattered like jacks across the ground. He gives his head a shake, gives Shiro’s hand another squeeze. “You are. . .I mean, you always have been something like that. But it’s more. . .”

He pauses, his gaze dropping to their hands, and he notices with a quiet start, that it is Shiro’s right hand holding onto him tight.

“Sometimes, I think I want to keep you just for me. But now with Voltron and everything else going on, it’s like something else could pull you away, and I thought that if I could keep this piece of what we are to myself then no one else could ever take it from me. So maybe, I could share that other part of you with the rest of this world, but. . .this part. . .”

Keith is looking up now, with this fledgling fear fluttering inside his chest and his words feeling like glass shards as he tries to work them over his tongue.

“. . .can’t I keep this part of you for myself?”

Shiro kisses him, this tender confirmation of everything that they are, everything Keith wishes so desperately to keep. Since arriving at the castle, moments like these have been far and few, lasting only moments. Ending usually with Shiro pulling away like he’s afraid of himself, of all the things he could do, and leaving Keith bereft of anything solid between them. Shiro’s left hand presses against Keith’s cheek, fingers sliding into the hair curling around his ear. A touch that Keith leans into, as his eyes fall shut and Shiro deepens their kiss. 

When it ends, Keith is left panting quietly against Shiro’s lips. “Do you – “

Shiro’s gaze flicks upwards to meet his, searching, and there’s not a moment of hesitation before the word comes out, just as the realization hits him, and sets everything free within Keith’s heart. “ _Yes_. . .”

“I don’t want you to stop. . .”

Eyelids fall shut over Shiro’s eyes then, mouth twisting with restraint, a look Keith remembers all too well. “Keith, we don’t have anything. . .and I don’t -”

But Keith isn’t listening to him. Instead, he’s turned and started to rummage in the drawer beside his bed. Fingers dance around the contents until they find what he had been looking for and he dumps it on the bed beside Shiro. 

“Where did you. . .?” Shiro questions, eyebrow lifted and a softspoken amazement in his voice. Just a bit incredulous. 

The blush ignites along Keith’s cheeks once more. “The med bay had those packets. I can’t think of any doctor that didn’t have use for some sort of lubricant. . .and those – “ Keith motions towards a small black box, his skin growing hotter still. “- there was this shop in that mall Coran took us to. The guy there thought they were balloons or something. . .I might have bartered with him.”

“How do you even know about - ?”

“I wasn’t stupid, Shiro,” Keith mutters irritably, wondering if it was better to die in battle or just here, right now, with all his quiet under-dealings exposed for Shiro to see. “I looked into things. . .back on Earth. . .”

Shiro starts to chuckle, setting his lips light to Keith’s forehead. “You really do like making things difficult for me.”

“I’m going to take a shower,” Keith mumbles as he works to extricate himself from Shiro’s presence. 

As he rises to his feet, Shiro is looking up at him with this odd flicker of mischief in his eyes. “Should I join you?”

“No!” Keith almost stumbles back, and Shiro starts cracking up, which puts this wonderful flourishing ache right in the center of Keith’s chest because when was the last time Shiro had laughed so open and unfettered. “I just. . .I’m going to. . .just sit there, okay?!”

“Got it.” A valiant effort to curb his laughter cuts in. “I’ll be here, sitting. Waiting. Just as commanded.”

Keith makes for the bathroom with hurried steps and heart pounding.

*

“What happened to sitting?”

When he emerges from the shower, it’s to find Shiro standing over his desk, with his knife in his hands. He’s turning it over and over, a slow precise study, and there’s nothing about the sight that tells Keith he’s perturbed in any sense of the word. 

“Had to do something with my time,” Shiro answers, a soft smile curving his lips. 

Keith walks over to him, heart still racing but his mind lulled to a slow drag by curiosity. He continues to wipe himself down absently, rubbing the towel along the back of his head to dry his hair when he finally stops beside Shiro. He had left his shirt in the bathroom, along with his boxers, and had only slipped back into his pajama bottoms, which hung loose as a secondhand thought over his hips. 

“It’s a good blade,” Shiro continues. “It suits you.”

Keith blinks, a flash of anguish stirring the emotions in his eyes and furrowing his brow. Shiro huffs out softly in amusement as he catches Keith’s gaze. He turns the sword around once more in his hands before setting it reverently back on the desk.

“It’s perfect just like it is in that form, but when you apply all that you are to it, it becomes something so much more. It’s amazing. . .”

The thoughts that had gone still as death within his head start to clamor again, these scurrying bits of life, telling him over and over again that Shiro is everything he could want. That the most amazing thing in his life is the man standing there beside him, having been beaten and scarred and yet still as much himself as he is Keith’s. The blush hits his cheeks once more, and it is all that seems to be needed to lure Shiro back to him. A hand is pressed again to his cheek, and Keith’s lips part in anticipation as Shiro leans in and kisses him once more. 

Step by step, Shiro guides them both back towards the bed. Keith follows, willingly led, with his mouth against Shiro’s and his hands sliding up his neck, pulling Shiro closer to him with every beat of his heart. When Shiro spills a soft moan into his mouth, Keith starts to smile. As the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress, he nips at Shiro’s lower lip and is left grinning, victorious and pleased, when the moan in Shiro’s throat turns deep and wanton, just a breath away from falling completely apart.

Shiro gives a tug on the edge of Keith’s pants. Keith returns the gesture along the hem of Shiro’s shirt. 

With a soft huff, Shiro relents, stepping back to hook his fingers around the edge of his T-shirt and lift it up and over his head. He lets it drop unceremoniously to the floor as Keith’s hands find his hips, as his mouth alights upon his collarbone. Beneath his touch, Shiro shudders, and Keith thinks it’s the most marvelous confession Shiro’s body has given him yet. He moves with wayward intent, mouth gliding along the expanse of skin before him, setting kisses light at times, with biting force at others. Swinging from one extreme to the other just so he can gauge Shiro’s reactions.

And not one of them disappoints him. With every air-spun kiss, Shiro’s body relaxes beneath him and the breath comes out in a near inaudible gasp. When desire puts the fire into his bite, marking all the different points he has charted for himself over Shiro’s skin, teeth grind down as muscles tense up and everything shatters seconds later with lips parting and Shiro groaning with pleasure. 

Keith falls back onto the mattress with one final kiss over Shiro’s left hip and a teasing pull on his pants. Released from Keith’s mouth, Shiro is left standing there breathless, his eyes smoldering like coals. It takes the air right out of Keith’s lungs. 

Once he finds some part of himself still cognizant of the situation around him, Shiro moves in quick and hungry. He sets a palm flat to the mattress on the left, curls his right arm around Keith’s body and drags them both towards the far wall barricading the other side of the bed. All of it allowing for Shiro to climb over the mattress, knees pressing down heavy, and lean down into Keith for another kiss. And this time, there is no serenade of soft and easy to start, but the full force of desire realized, searing against Keith’s lips. He gasps sharply, mouth opening with the sound and allowing for Shiro’s tongue to slip inside. Keith pushes up into the kiss, just as Shiro lowers his hips and grinds down.

An act that devastates his better reasoning. 

Keith is the one left breathless and moaning in its wake, the kiss broken, eyes shut and head hanging as Shiro rolls hips against him once more. He can feel just how hard Shiro is, just how badly he wants to be touched himself. And like he simply _knows_ , Shiro is reaching down to rub the flat of his palm over Keith’s erection, the fabric of his pants sliding up and down against the shaft and putting fire right into the core of everything Keith is. The sound that breaks over his lips next leaves him blushing furiously beneath Shiro's gaze.

And that is when Shiro pulls away, with one fleeting kiss against Keith’s forehead. He slips back off the bed and tugs off his pants. Something in the back of Keith’s mind idly notes that Shiro had walked here barefoot, and somehow he finds that oddly endearing. But it’s the strain against Shiro’s boxer briefs that has the warmth suffusing across his abdomen and another moan bubbling in his throat. 

Never has anticipation tasted so good on his tongue. 

Shiro smiles, a little awkward around the edges but undeniably aroused by the sight waiting for him on the bed, and it makes Keith’s heart stutter to think that he could be the cause. He slides towards the edge of the bed as Shiro moves back in, reaches out to slip the tips of his fingers down the waistband of Shiro’s underpants. Above him, Shiro watches, gaze desire-dark, the grey of his eyes like smoke as it rises from a firepit. Keith slowly begins to roll the fabric over, and over, until the entire article is sliding down Shiro’s thighs, exposing him in full. The minute Keith’s fingers reach Shiro’s knees he lets go and there is nothing left to keep Shiro clothed. 

Standing over him, Shiro’s breath is held, his lips ajar. Keith keeps his gaze locked on Shiro’s face as he leans in and sets his mouth against the inner aspect of Shiro’s left thigh. His cock is fully erect beside him, thicker than his own but not much longer. The sight of it makes his own arousal ache, and as he kisses his way down Shiro’s leg, Keith reaches down and begins to slide his own pants off. 

His name falls from above, a harsh whisper. Shiro isn’t looking at him directly anymore, but at the hardness between Keith’s legs. And he wonders if this somehow makes it all real, seeing the full effect their want for one another has worked over them, this undeniable physical reaction exposed and shameless. Keith pushes himself back over the mattress and waits as Shiro follows him in blind devotion. A hand wraps around his cock as Shiro presses forward and kisses him once more, but all Keith can do is gasp at the touch and all it promises him. 

“I want to wait. . .” Shiro starts to murmur, “ I want to. . .but. . .”

And it sounds so beautifully broken to Keith, as patience meets its limit and Shiro dissolves into something all his own. He simply nods, understanding, and slowly turns around, positioning himself on his forearms and knees. Shiro’s hand releases him, which pulls yet another gasp from his lips, and Keith almost laments the loss of his touch. Except he can hear Shiro tearing open a packet, can feel a palm smoothing over the curve of his ass, and all he can tell himself is that Shiro was right and the stars are a hell of a lot closer for people like them. 

When the first finger slips into him, Keith registers the cool of the lube and the faint pressing sensation around inside. It doesn’t hurt, not much, but he knows he had taken enough time for that in the shower and that this isn’t even the beginning. But none of that matters, because Shiro is a burning force behind him, with lips setting against the small of his back, along his ass, at the backs of his thighs. And all the while, his finger moves steadily in and out until Keith has to claw at the sheets to keep himself from grinding back against it. 

The second slides in, and this time Keith feels a different sort of pressure coil tight around him. It puts a strange flutter in his core, spun from would-be panic and overridden by the idea of pleasure. The third finger has his fingers digging into the sheets for an entirely different reason, and Shiro pauses momentarily until Keith growls low in his throat and there is no further question about continuing. He takes his time though, diffusing the pain with the press of his mouth over skin, consoling even as it jolts Keith’s nerves with excitement. 

Finally, though, there comes a tipping point, and when Keith hits it, he glances beneath his arm with his core strung tight and his mind hazy with one thought and one alone. “Now. . .Shiro just. . . _now_. . .”

Everything goes still behind him. When Shiro exhales, it’s harsh as ground glass and sounding just as pained. His head falls against Keith’s back, lips moving, but it’s not until Shiro’s hands grip hard over Keith’s hips that he finally makes out the mantra moving them: _fuck, fuck, fuck_. . .

He starts to laugh then, just this small wash of it, and when he looks up, Shiro is staring down at him, blushing but not at all apologetic. 

“You do the worst things to me. . .” he whispers, the corners of his mouth tipped upwards, and his eyes lit from deep within. 

“How else should I remind you that you’re alive?”

And Shiro laughs then as he reaches over for the box Keith had tossed over the bed earlier, goes silent as he pulls the condom free and rolls it slowly down the length of his cock. Keith watches, swallowing hard as Shiro’s fingers hit the base of his erection and he tears open another packet of lubrication. 

Hands are upon his hips again, their grip light and questioning this time. Keith drops his head to the mattress, sets his knees apart just a bit wider, and waits. 

Waits and waits, as Shiro exhales heavily above him, as the head of Shiro’s cock pushes against his hole and slowly starts to press forward. And it takes the breath right from his lips, conjures up a shudder severe and ripping right through his core. Keith bites down, eyes screwing shut. Shiro stops behind him, only partially buried within him.

“Don’t stop. . .” Keith grounds out after one harsh inhale. 

“Slowly then,” Shiro murmurs, and this time he does sound just a bit sorry. He leans forward, pushing himself in deeper, and with it, presses a kiss to Keith’s shoulder, another to his spine, and another to the nape of his neck. Again and again, one for every inch being taken. And with each kiss, Keith reminds himself to relax, to breathe, tells himself that there are better ways for the world to end but maybe this is the most exquisite of them all. 

Behind him, Shiro stills once more, and this time, Keith says nothing. Simply breathes and breathes, slow and slower still, and once his breath regulates, Shiro finally moves again, pulling himself back out, slow and slower still. He does this again and again, until Keith is no longer crushing each exhale between gritted teeth and quietly begins to pant instead. The movements come easier, a fluid glide in and out, and with it, Shiro begins to quicken the thrust of his hips. 

Keith begins to feel a different sort of burn in his groin, coiling tighter with every roll of Shiro’s hips against his ass, as he drives in deep and lingers for only a breath or two then pulls back out. It grows brighter, scalding, and Keith doesn’t remember when the moans started spilling over the sheets, but suddenly it hits him that the sound is all his own and he can’t spare a second to be embarrassed because Shiro is panting tight and barely controlled against his skin, Keith’s name whispered over and over.

When he comes, the whole world burns bright before his eyes, but all he can hear is Shiro, breathless behind him. And all he can feel is the warmth radiating from his core like a sun burst newly into existence and ready to burn slow and steady until some unforeseen end. 

Shiro has gone quiet, his movements slow and unsteady until he stops entirely, the entire length of him buried, and his forehead pressed sweat-slicked and hot against Keith’s back. His breaths come in rapid little pulses, light with satisfaction, and he reaches down to set his hand over on top of Keith’s, where he laces their fingers and gives a soft squeeze. 

A laugh fuses with Keith’s next breath. 

“Fuck, Shiro. . .”

“Language,” Shiro pants out, but not the least bit chiding. He brushes a kiss to Keith’s temple, gives his hand one last press, and then he’s pulling himself up and out of Keith with a soft, sated groan. 

Keith drops his hips and carefully rolls over onto his side. “That’s rich coming from the guy who kept cursing over my back. . .”

Shiro gives in to a breathless bit of laughter then. “That was circumstantial. . .”

“So was mine.”

With a soft musing hum, the kind Shiro gives when he’s not entirely convinced but isn’t about to fight it, he drops the emptied lubrication packets and condom into the trashcan, then tugs at the sheet damp and stained on the bed. Keith shifts himself reluctantly as Shiro pulls it from the mattress, letting it flutter useless to the floor, then climbs back into bed. He settles himself in alongside Keith, who curls up against his side a moment later, his heartbeat still running rampant. 

When he presses his head against Shiro’s chest, it’s to find his heartrate dashing along at a similar pace and it puts a small smile to his lips. Shiro drapes his arm across Keith’s back, letting his fingers tug and tangle with the hair at the nape of his neck. For several minutes, they say nothing, silent as the air cools around them, as their hearts find peace once again. And all the while, Shiro’s fingers continue to dance about the back of his neck.

“With Voltron, we’re supposed to be something like heroes, right?” Keith asks, quiet as he starts to trace his galactic net between Shiro’s scars. 

“I think it depends on what perspective you take, but yeah. . .we’re supposed to be something like that.”

Keith breathes out then, his fingertips stilling. “Then, if the gods existed, when we come to the end. . .” A pause. He watches as his hand slips down over Shiro’s side, into the beyond of the comforter trapped beneath them. “. . .would they place us side-by-side?”

Shiro laughs, the act shaking right down through his chest and into Keith. “Maybe, if you want to put a little faith in myth.” He reaches down, brushes the hair from Keith’s forehead, smiling warm as a summer’s sunset. “But, I don’t think our story is going to be that tragic.”


End file.
